Page 43

I would never forget that feeling—helpless, humiliated, wishing I could disappear into the floor.

Every memory of being degraded and objectified detonated in my brain like wildfire.

"Hey, ladies. Need any help here?"

I strode over, my black suede heels clicking sharply on the tile like a battle drum.

The two women turned. Their eyes raked over me, dripping contempt.

"This doesn't concern you."

"She's my friend." I grabbed the girl's hand and pulled her behind me. "So yeah. It does."

"Your friend?" One of them laughed mockingly. "I guess you two match. Both so... voluptuous."

She said the word like it was poison.

"Thanks for the compliment." I smiled. "At least we look like actual women. Not two dried-out baguettes."

Their faces went purple.

"What did you just say?"

"I said you two look like skeletal famine victims dug up from a thirteenth-century plague pit." I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to. "Your pelvises are so narrow they look like sun-dried cod. That so-called 'haute couture figure' you're so proud of? It's just malnutrition-induced brain shrinkage and chronic halitosis. If your IQs were half as prominent as your rib cages, you'd realize that bullying an innocent guest in a public corridor at the Grande Palais doesn't make you look elegant—it makes you look like two rabid strays fighting over a rotten bone."

They turned the color of liver.

The taller one trembled with rage, jabbing her finger so close it almost hit my nose.

"You... you vulgar American fat cow! Who the hell do you think you are? Do you know whose exclusive runway models we are? Someone call security! Throw this lunatic out!"

"Call security?"

I laughed coldly and stepped closer instead of backing down.

"Sure. Call the head of security. Call the organizers of tonight's expo while you're at it." I dropped my voice, lacing it with pure contempt and certainty. "You can tell them to their faces that you just tried to humiliate the only woman on Marcelo Moretti's arm tonight. Then we'll see if you still have careers in this industry when Marcelo walks out of that VIP lounge."

"Mo... Moretti?"

The moment they heard that name, their pupils shrank. All the color drained from their faces.

Oh. Guess Mr. Moretti's reputation carries more weight than I thought.

They glanced at each other in panic, then stared at my dress in horror.

"We were... we were just joking with her..." The shorter one stammered, backing up. "Sorry. We didn't mean to bother you."

Then they bolted down the corridor on their stilettos like rabbits fleeing a wolf.

Watching them flee, I let out a long breath. The bow-tight tension in my back finally eased.

Playing the fox borrowing the tiger's power? Honestly... felt damn good.

I turned to the young woman still huddled by the column.

She was clutching her wine-soaked yellow dress, staring at me through tear-blurred eyes, her whole body curled up small, her peachy cheeks flushed bright red.

"Stop crying, sweetheart." I walked over and pulled a pack of unscented wet wipes from my clutch, softening my voice. "Wipe your face. Crying over those two twigs is a waste of your body's precious hydration."